Hack Job
by Mayhem21
Summary: North America hides mysteries soaked in blood.


Notes: I figured Halloween would be a good time to start teasing out bits of my Supernatural!North America headcanon.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

* * *

This really was the worse possible time for France to visit. If Kumadora hadn't been thought to call out to me when my former guardian pulled up the driveway, I'd be doing more than smiling pleasantly in response to France's flowing description of his trans-Atlantic flight while hiding a blood soaked knife behind me.

"Commercial, Canada, I had to fly commercial." France grimaced and shuddered, the fringe on his light blue scarf swaying with the motion. "Some nonsense about expenses."

I nodded helplessly, trying to follow along with the fashionably dressed french man's story while frantically reviewing the slapdash cleanup job I'd performed while France drove up, parked in front of the garage, and walked around to the back of the my house.

The body had been dumped behind the tractor along with my bloody rubber gloves and sweater, I'd scattered some of the dusting of snow from earlier over the smaller drops and pools of blood, and sacrificed my tidy leaf pile (perfect for jumping into, damn it) to conceal the rest. Dirt and dead leaf fragments clung to the sticky blood on my boots and as long as I didn't leave red tracks all over I could probably get away with a story about a recent hunting trip.

'Note to self,' I realized, 'Text America and have him fake a hunting trip last week. Thank God he owes me after that mess in Chicago. I helped him hide six bodies. The least he can do is help me with my single one.'

The crunch of approaching footprints had left me with a bloody knife somewhat too large to claim to use for hunting and no where to hide it before France came into view.

A single-armed embrace later (easily justified by the luggage France refused to set down and risk getting damp or dirty) and I was listening to the horrors of commercial air while trying to figure out how to hide the final piece of evidence of my morning's toil.

"Oh, but Canada, you must be freezing," France suddenly exclaimed. He tsk'ed, eyes running over my thin t-shirt, my bare arms, and my distinct lack of scarf or hat. "How often have Angleterre and myself told you not to run around outdoors without proper clothing?"

"Oh, I was cleaning up back here," I hurried to explain. "I always work up such a sweat and I just end up taking off my sweater and it gets buried under the leaves-" I stopped abruptly, realizing I was rambling.

France gave me a level look before looking around the messy backyard, blue eyes moving from the tractor to the clumps of snow and leaves and finally to the partially demolished leaf pile. After several excruciating moments, he threw his head back and laughed.

"I am quite sure," he chucked, "that it is generally preferred to sit back and enjoy the fruits of ones labor rather than, say, leaping into a pile of leaves and rolling about with such fervor that all of your work piling them up is undone."

I cast a silent thank you to whatever deity was watching.

"Well," came my weak, sheepish response. "We all have different ways of enjoying ourselves."

"Indeed, petite."

He shook his head at me, a wry smile clinging to his lips before he shifted slightly, inclining his head towards the house.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I gasped. A flash of white caught the corner of my eye. Kumatie. There really was something up there helping out.

"Please, let me take that," I suddenly exclaimed, stepping forward to take France's bag and letting the knife drop to the ground behind me. France look a started step back while I dragged my feet a bit more to increase the noise of rustling, crunching leaves.

"Ah, merci," he replied, recovering quickly, and yielded his bag.

We turned towards the house and as we neared the steps to the backdoor he paused.

"Will Kumajiro be joining us?" France was looking back into the yard at my polar bear friend. A friend now laying on top of the bloody knife I did not want to discuss. If I could just get France inside…

"Who?" I opened my eyes wide in faux innocence.

France shook his head.

"You and he," he teased as we reached the door, which I quickly opened for him. "After so many centuries, I cannot begin to understand how the both of you continue to forget each other." Warmth flooded through us as we (finally) stepped inside. France made a soft sound of delight and began to unwind his layers of clothing. I set the luggage down in front of me and toed off my dirty boots, setting them into the boot tray I kept next to the door."Moose, Canada?"

I looked down at my socks. They were thick and warm socks decorated with green and brown moose. And thankfully, not soaked in blood.

"America gave them to me," I looked up. "I like them. I think he said he found them in Maine. I could ask him so send you a pair?"

If the idea of America thinking he wanted kitschy socks didn't make France change topics, nothing would.

"I think not, Canada." France looked ill. Well, anyone who knew America knew that taking an interest in anything unlikely American (or something kind of odd) such as strange socks or John Wayne would get end up with more socks or John Wayne memorabilia than anyone could ever want.

"Well, why don't you tell me why you're here while I make some coffee," I offered, grinning at France's obvious discomfort.

Dissolving a few sleeping pills in France's coffee should give me just enough time to finish up outside once he'd passed out. I'd come to cherish my former guardian's visits ever since I joined the British Empire and it would be quite a shame for a bloody body to come between us.

* * *

Notes: I may or may not return to this. I have the basic situation here completely laid out in my head but I'm having issues with implementation.


End file.
